A Very Snape-Like Christmas
by snapemartyr
Summary: During third year Harry Potter sits with a small gathering of staff and students at Christmas time. Professor Dumbledore requests that Snape open one of the delightful exploding firecrackers sitting at the table appealingly . . . but Snape does not find it to be so appealing, rather. Harry is unexpectedly drawn into this treat of the potions master.


_**A Very Snape-like Christmas ~**_

_**Hogwarts, 3**__**rd**__** Year, in the Great Hall, with a twist . . . **_

_**{A/N: Merry late Christmas everyone! I hope that this brings you back to one of the most pleasing Snape years I remember within the Harry Potter series. This one has a bit of a twist about it . . .}**_

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"Ahh, Severus, why don't you sit here with us since we do not have the typical number in our midst, of those students and faculty that comprise the great hall." Snape looked at Professor Dumbledore for a moment, with a glint in his eye that Harry thought was more dangerous than the loss of people taking up place within the chairs at the head table. He glanced at Professor McGonagall, sitting at the right of the headmaster while wearing the most fascinating look that he had ever imagined upon her face. Her eyes were twinkling merrily, even though they were strangely turned away from the two of them, as though she had gone completely deaf to the conversation. Snape stared down his hooked nose at Harry while he pulled the chair out which Professor Dumbledore had proffered upon his request, and he, Harry, glanced furtively down at the soup before him, which looked suddenly . . . delicious. Dumbledore caught Harry's gaze when he raised his eyes once more, his blue orbs twinkling madly. Harry nearly choked upon his soup. He spent the next few minutes trying pointedly to ignore the potion master's glare.

"Here, Severus, have one of these delightful exploding treats, which I believe the Weasely twins have conjured during some of their spare time- " at this, Dumbledore held up a hand. Harry himself paused, his spoon held over his bowl while his ears become fully perked. "There is no harm in opening them, I assure you, since I have had the pleasure of living through the experience myself." Harry sought out the Headmaster's face, but since he was focused at this particular moment upon Snape, his eyes roving down toward the small, vinyl-appearing twisted paper wad which Dumbledore was holding out. Snape glared at it for a minute distrustfully. Finally, he reached out with one of his long-fingered hands, a sneer plastered upon his face, and pulled the string hanging candidly, tauntingly, out of the paper vehicle of the Weasely's creation. A cloud burst over the head of the table with an explosion so death-defying, that Harry quickly placed his hands over his ears tightly. He dubiously watched the circling purple mist above the small group of people, sucking in a breath that was collective from the gathering as out from the splendiferous smoke grew, an image-

The sight was vividly portrayed, inasmuch as that he was practically blinded, at first, by the green twined around the red and gold banners which finally formed into tangible objects and people. The projection created from some imaginary deity had not been honed without some design it would seem, for the potions master himself sprouted out from the air, shimmering for a minute, as if he could not develop into anything that they would want to look at, but soon he became tangible. He scowled, as soon as he developed a tangible appearance, like as if he knew that he had an audience beneath him, and did not want to be, at any rate, observed. Beside him the form of a woman was also growing into a solid being, although she had arrived so quickly, that Harry might have missed her appearance had he looked at Snape for a minute longer.

The odd feature that he noticed immediately upon this manifestation intercepted his perception of Lily Potter. Severus Snape and his mother carried with them the bearing of two teenagers, and they were in fact, two teenagers, standing next to each other while Lily placed a pinch of something close to his nose, as he offered her something in turn. Snape featured as a lanky young man wearing luxurious robes of the Slytherin emblazoning was not proper; Harry simply didn't understand why he offered his mother a crescent-shaped flower petal of dark maroon, placing it beneath her nose rapidly. Whatever she held out to Snape was glittering softly in the pretty moonlit background, where trees of every variety imaginable glistened with Christmas lights, shielded behind bobbles that merrily hung from their branches. The image dissipated however, as rapidly as Harry spotted every single item that slowly became apparent within the scene setting, and his mother's red and gold dress, shaping her figure in an elegant manner, vanished away. Harry was left staring up into the vast ceiling of the Hogwarts castle within the Great Hall. The boy who had been an awkward teenager extending a hand out to his mother, was now looking directly at Albus Dumbledore. Harry did not think that he had ever seen so much loathing centered within someone's eyes, and this dark-clad, sour potions master nailed the headmaster with an ingratiatingly, phenomenal hatred such as he couldn't describe.

The clattering of the evening meal quieted, indicating that everyone had stopped their movements in order to glance at Snape himself, for Harry did not notice a person at the table who did not look furtively at the potions master when the image had vanished, and, in fact, everyone was now staring openly. The headmaster was quiet for a moment. Professor McGonagall, sitting to his right, had paused halfway through lifting a spoon filled with carrot and broccoli soup up to her mouth, and now she focused upon Dumbledore, rather than that steaming mouthful. Harry looked at Dumbledore as well. Professor Dumbledore glanced at Minerva, before, he slowly pushed his bowl of soup aside, and clapped his hands merrily, breaking the quiet.

"Well, well, everyone! Eat up! I'm sure that there are some lovely firecrackers and exploding snaps that has everyone's- ah- name upon them. Every secret shall remain hidden within every nook and cranny, shielded behind all the bowls of sweets, until that beautiful moment, that revealing semblance which we shall remember forever . . . don't let shyness interfere with the most enchanting engagement that you will perhaps ever experience." Harry did not wonder about the experiences that the other professors would perhaps not seek out, after that fascinating vision they had witnessed, unless perhaps they sought to rather, extract themselves from any possible targeting malice of Snape. He may have been correct in assuming the later, for after this statement, the table burst into chatter once again, somehow more animated although poignantly so, than it was before the image had been displayed.

Without any time provided for Harry to process the movement, Snape had pushed his chair back, arising in a furious array of black arced robes, which swept behind him like a fan of the most deadly specimen while he removed himself from the table. He tried to catch Professor Dumbledore's eye as the potion master glided quietly out of the Great Hall, but his face was coolly impassive, and he seemed quite happily engaged in fact, by this point, in a conversation with the transfiguration professor. The gaiety of the Christmas decorations seemed to have lightened their message somewhat, as though the lights strung from the green and soft blue trees framing the area which normally entranced the observer with house descriptions of whatever may at the four tables be arrayed, in banners or whatnots, but was now so prettily and merrily adorned, had been dulled. Harry found that his own silver gilded teaspoon no longer held anything appetizing for him, so he numbly pushed his own chair back, hoping to slip away unnoticed. To his enormous surprise, he caught Professor Dumbledore cast a quick glance at him, but he continued speaking with McGonagall as though Harry had imagined the action.

Harry rolled up the long sleeves of his Weasely-made sweatshirt that he had received this very morning, of a bright red pigment. Ron's mother had knitted a large 'H' into the center of it, but he did not feel quite so warm, for some reason, even though the letter knitted with several layers of wool covered his torso well, though he could not fathom the reason for it. So he walked down the frigid hallway, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, feeling the goosebumps crawl up his forearms as his skinny body traveled in one direction, bent on attaining its destination even though it remained unsaid in his consciousness. Harry was not bothered by the beams of dust above his head while the alcove he had entered darkened by with dank, spongy slush of some kind beneath his feet, which drenched the walls, creating wet shadows about the narrow passage. He crossed one, large step that led him to a midnight shaded window alighted by a few lone stars, twinkling through the night, providing a glow stark enough for him to view his surroundings.

He had unwittingly traveled to a new part of the castle, even though scarce the ability to move or to see his very hand in front of him, but now he roamed along the barrier of a stairwell that was leading out of the alcove into a new and glorified dark splendor. Harry paused, biting his lips while the caterwauling thoughts in his head settled long enough for him to take a cursory look at where he had ended up. He swallowed nervously, and bent down to tie his shoe. An inane apology of some sort upon the tip of his tongue waggled within his mouth while he noted abruptly that, he was entirely alone, but a sincere something heavily arose in him, clogging his throat stuck which stuck itself somehow beneath his tonsils, although he couldn't depict its exact location. He didn't really understand why such a sad yet exquisitely deep emotion coursed through him, and indeed it may have been that Harry retained a common tendency to overdramatize his own self. Nothing could be said of him that did not fortify the reasons for which he had rashly flown to this section of pathetic space within the castle however, that tension flooding now throughout his entire body which forced him to this very spot. After all, it was Christmas, yet here Harry stood. Outside of the alcove was the Boy-Who-Lived, one that he had never seen, heading towards a set of narrow stairs through pure darkness, which could lead to anywhere . . .

Curiosity is a crime, some may affirm. Yet Harry Potter was not overly concerned with his need to execute an adventure so that he might have the ability to forget the image that he had just seen. A silent night sounded extremely enticing to him at this moment . . . he began a trek therefore up the rickety staircase, praying a thank-you for the gift of dryness, as the marsh he had trudged through had sullied the tips of his shoes, so that they stared up at him with the most disgusting glints of goo from the puddles. Harry's mind had been switched off as a muggle light bulb flickered, and died. He was an automaton, moving through the figments of his own mind, even though the actions were physical. No matter where he went no peace could be found, and no small, fascinating specimen who lived to engage him dashed throughout the Hogwart's halls, so in pursuit of what he could never find, Harry continued to walk, the burning red scorch-mark flaring to life in his breast. A house-elf, or the persona in a lively picture he might covet . . . but it was not to be.

He crossed over a threshold into yet another alcove, not completely comprehending the meaning of the many spaces with their arching overhangs in the form of curved triangles, because they were so very different in their design from the majority of the hidden passages, and even the various classrooms, at Hogwarts. So he stepped into this one as though in a trance, pulling his body weight up the stairs as though nothing could stop him. Another marshy floor met his feet, but since they were already soiled Harry did not pay any heed to the disarray of his clothing, until that is . . . he heard a cat crying. In the distance, beyond the sodden platform sitting upon a step that carried the passenger into another secret patch of the precariously old castle, was the most wonderfully amused expression on the face on an animal that he had ever seen. Yellow eyes somehow enlivened by the sight of him, lifting his pant leg a fraction of an inch while he stepped carefully through the pools of water, belonging to Mrs. Norris were eerily depicted, causing Harry to stop, at the end of the passage. He stared directly at Mrs. Norris. Somehow he knew, even before the gangly man with his dreadfully creative beard that twisted about into a splendiferous array of knots as though bangles hung from his ruddy face, who would be following, cleanly, neatly and predictably. He was not disappointed.

A shadow loomed over the ginger cat, but he could not make out the characteristics of the caretaker from this position. When the man stepped, however, into the nastily lighted passage sculpted into some kind of physical beautification of life from the darkness by a few, sadly hanging stars shining through another window he had the fortune of passing, making the area a little happier, Harry's heart stilled. It was not Filch, who had followed his personal treasure, but Snape. He eyes bored into him and his mouth turned upward, into an expressively awful sneer upon recognition that in itself seemed absolutely pleasured by this opportunity he'd been granted.

"Well, well, well . . . what a surprise," the potions master said softly. "Imagine finding you in one of the forbidden sections of the castle . . . wandering about," he intoned the last word in a silken way, like a fine thread that he'd been holding out of dark glittering shards which he'd somehow woven together. "You do realize, Potter, that certain- ah- members of your own house, and even the headmaster, would be most aggrieved at the discovery that the golden boy is no longer at dinner." His sneer formed into an ominous smile. "In fact," he continued, "I do believe that the headmaster makes a special attempt every year, which takes much of his time and energy, into making completely certain that everything is fixed according to the particular tastes of those he holds dear." Harry just stared at Snape. Then, before he could stop the words from spiraling out of his throat, he spat out,

"Did he create that particular firecracker?" As soon as the words had been emitted, he clamped a hand over his mouth, but it came down again quickly, for Snape descended upon Harry as a bat gliding out from its shadowy hole to viciously attack its prey, his arms extending from his pockets, and before Harry knew it the cold tip of a wand was pressed up to his throat.

Snape's breathing was pouring into his face like a smelly whiff from a drainage pipe blasting through at once.

"Come with me," he breathed. Harry simply nodded, not daring to disobey Snape lest he anger him further.

The potions master swirled down the hallway with such speed that Harry needed to run to keep up, his long robes trailing after him as a tail gliding behind its owner in a detached way, simply for pleasure purposes, even though Snape really had no sense of style that he had ever detected. A stairwell adjoining the one he had followed led to another, which magically thrummed as though harkening a drum's beat while scoping out more hallways, all of them sculpted from a maker that apparently enjoyed the spontaneity that an extremely complicated labyrinth might offer. The very rails seemed alive when Harry placed his hands over them. Before long, a whisper from ahead of him made him catch on, listening to a soft command Snape enunciated, upon which the staircase would mold into another, leading them both in an affixed direction. He realized that Snape must have traveled this particular area more times than one, but no amount of mental stamina would bring to him the conclusion of the mysterious fact, that the stairs obeyed the potions master. Moments later, they walked out of a final alcove, right into the dungeon corridor.

It dawned upon Harry that he must have been walking quite close to the dungeons without even knowing it. Snape walked towards his office door, with Harry, glumly trailing behind him. When he reached it, he pointed his wand at the handle, muttering something that was indiscernible to him, and the door slowly opened.

"Inside," he hissed. Harry followed Snape into the trademark office, a sinking crashing through his gut that brought to mind all of the detentions he had sat through beneath the glaring creatures of many different variations, slithering through their liquid gels to mock him, or rock back and forth eerily within their minuscule glass gars. The ticking of the clock alerted him to the hour, striking him with slight surprise, since it was already eleven o'clock, and way past curfew. The door thudded closed with a loud reverberation sounding throughout the room. The minute that the clink tinkled like a bell blasting his death sentence was also that in which Snape crossed the room to stand stoically in front of him, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring down his nose at him with no weak amount of cutting censor. Harry watched his fingers still upon the desk behind him, and the body of the potion master became rock-like. Not a sound could be heard in the room save for the quiet ticking of the small mahogany clock resting on its fixture over the left side of the classroom.

"You saw it fit, did you Potter, to walk along one of the rarest and most troublesome passages for students during this time, on a holiday, no less, tut, tut." Snape stared down at him coolly, while his long fingers tapped elegantly along the edge of the wooden slab he clutched. Harry averted his eyes, while a furious anger rushed throughout his body, nearly making him numb, calling him back into the frigid ice that he had somehow created with his Weasely sweater, and all of the other parts of his physical being, even though it was his mind, which had of course done such. To Snape however, a frigid environment suited the art of potions apparently or simple desire, for his penchant for it undermined everything else in this chilly shard of ice. At Christmas, a witch or wizard should enjoy the warmth of a toasty fire, clad in a pair of Dobby's thick socks holding a flask of pumpkin juice before them, alighted by the sparkling flame. He looked up at Snape dubiously. His cold eyes narrowed suspiciously at him.

"You are no doubt entertaining several foolish notions at the moment, which I would fervently enjoy vanishing away with the fire that a long line of respectable pureblood wizards sometimes use Potter, to put out their unwanted objects." He paused. His eyes glittered. "They are not necessarily items, but sometimes animate beings that the world would supposedly do better without- shall we say would even . . . profit from." His tone was nonchalant. Snape was no longer looking at Harry, but was examining the ceiling quite prudently. Harry balled his hands into fists, stuffing them into his pockets roughly, trying desperately to reign in his temper.

"I- want to know- what my mother and you were doing in that memory," he said through gritted teeth slowly, still watching Snape carefully. The potions master merely examined the edge of his tails with the utmost care, almost as though he were wondering whether it would be a good idea to get them manicured. Harry's heart was pumping wildly. The entirety of the emptily desolate last hour he had spent trekking through every shallow and hidden space that castle had made available ran to meet him, and the impact was not one that he would ever again wish for. He sucked in his breath while waiting for Snape's answer. The potions master looked at this moment as though he had something particularly nasty stuck in his jaw, and did not know how he could swallow it without doing some irreversible damage to his system.

"Rest assured, Potter, that, had you been any other student in this school save for the one that your father had generated, I would perhaps give you the benefit of an answer." Harry opened his mouth furiously, but Snape here, held up a hand. He stalled, waiting. Snape straightened to his full height, unfolding his arms in the most deliberate manner that Harry could ever remember anyone executing in such a simple movement. It was devilishly . . . exquisite, in some way, as though he were taking a twisted measure of pure engagement via that simple act. He found himself wondering inexplicably what Snape would do for extracurricular fun over the holiday break, and thereupon needed to call upon his mental forces to stall his unwarranted chuckle at the idea of this particular person placed into a sentence which enclosed the word 'fun.' An image came to mind of Snape receiving some type of missive from Professor Trelawney, expressing her deepest concerns for his welfare during Christmas, which would soon be in grave danger due to a deadly creation prompted, by her wonderfully splendid artful mind, and then, the potions master was writing a furious note back to her, whisking it away upon the leg of a spiteful raven- his lips almost twitched imperceptibly.

"Your mother was an extremely versatile witch," he said slowly, his voice a controlled hiss, and Harry jerked up his head, meeting Snape's gaze so quickly that his eyes might have been made out of magnets. He opened his mouth to reply, but found that upon the attempt, he began gaping like a fish caught out of water, so he quickly closed it shut, willing Snape to say more. Snape's shadowed eyes flickered off, into the distance somewhere that Harry could not see. Then his hand closed around his wand in a vice-like grip, his fingers wrapped so tightly that they dug into his pale hand, while a tremor ran down his arm. Involuntarily Harry shuffled his left foot. "She did not understand the niceties of living with the enormity of a finely crafted gift- " Snape paused, his dark eyes flicking upon his own wand, twirling it gently between his fingers, as he raised it, up into the light to examine. "She did not understand that such a purview she owned would not lend itself to what a talent should reap, even though I told her repeatedly that she could have been great, if only she would let me assist her . . . " his voice died, snuffed out by an interior enemy that Harry could not see, but could hear very well in his tone. Then the wand rose even higher above them, and erstwhile, Snape's eyes narrowed even further, as though he had noticed a marking perhaps that he'd never seen on his own wand prior to this point. "She didn't listen." His eyes fell once more upon Harry. They had emptied themselves of the strange fury which had stirred in them, the darkness leaving as quickly as it had arrived, giving him the impression of someone who had visited an insane moment, but had shut it all mercifully away, so that all which remained was a shell empty.

"Sir?" Harry questioned cautiously. "I really don't know what you're saying." Snape continued to toy with his wand.

"No," he hissed, staring at him oddly. "You wouldn't, would you? You are James Potter's spawn, through and through. You have always been James Potter's spawn." Harry opened his mouth to reply, but then he closed it again. He had no idea how to respond to Snape's accusation, for he had often been told that he looked exactly like his father, and yet he perceived that the venom in his voice evoked more than simple recollections for the potions master. He had an ugly feeling, that a wrong word or gesture would induce Snape to move the wand away from its current position, and he had no intention of being targeted. But his worries were for naught apparently, for the moment they crossed his mind, Snape thrust the wand roughly in his pocket. His black eyes were again boring into Harry's.

"How strange . . . " he said slowly, "how very strange indeed that you look exactly like your father, and yet, your mother was the one who became targeted by your birth." Snape was no longer looking at Harry, for his eyes were now slightly unfocused, his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his overbearing robes. Before he could do more than merely begin to think of a retort, the potions master had swept away from him, moving towards the door. His pale, thin hand reached for the door handle. Harry swallowed over a stick of glue that had, inexplicably, become lodged in his throat.

"Wait," he said. Something toxic was swimming in Snape's black eyes, halting his progress while he approached. His sour face had become alighted with the nastiest grimace that Harry ever could have imagined at the sight standing before him. He hesitated, but then decided that unless he spoke up, he would most likely never know what he needed to, so he steeled himself with the understanding of how deeply his regret would extend if he did not make the effort of asking. He walked right up to Snape and caught the door handle in his own grasp. The potions master snarled, blackly at him.

"I just wanted to know . . . why the exploding firecracker gave you that gift, because, er- well I know that the Weasely twins spelled them so they would give the witch or wizard who opened the twist their greatest desire." Harry did not know how to continue, so he merely resigned himself to the untamed stare that he could not seem to manage which followed this question. Snape's shoulder jerked roughly, in what appeared to be a nearly involuntary movement, launching the rest of him away from the heavily framed door, to the other side of the room. Harry watched in abject horror as he stumbled slightly against his desk, before grasping the edge of it, roughly. He could hear his long yellow nails scraping into the wood, causing him to cringe. Snape straightened abruptly however, standing up to his full height as he brushed his hands over his robes one, then twice, shooting him a furious look. Harry gulped.

"S- sor- " Snape raised a finger to his dark lips. Harry paused, a bit . . . curious.

"No," he hissed softly. "You are not to say anything else on the topic Potter." His eyes held a strange gleam, whirling about like a snowstorm in its climatic moment. "Whatever profits can be gained from whatever the nature of my relationship to your mother had been are never to be yours."

"But- " said Harry.

"No!" He spat, crassly, as though Harry were a vile potion, splattering around him and soiling his feet perhaps. "It is not to be yours, Potter!" Snape turned away from him quickly, and Harry simply stood there, staring. He did not really understand the strength behind the potion master's reaction.

"Lily . . . belonged . . . to me." His voice could barely be heard as it was now a soft whisper. Harry was completely baffled. What could he possibly say to that? He swallowed.

"You loved my mother?" One of his thin arms reached out, grabbing for a vial of one of his potions. It tightened around the glass so rapidly, and tightly, that Harry thought it would shatter.

"She will always belong to me." The room was silent, until he again became aware of the clock's ticking.

"Er- okay," he said finally, at a complete loss for a proper reaction to this statement. He scratched the back of his head. "That's alright. Um- I'll just- go and- " But before he could emit his statement, the potions master had flung himself into his face once more, gripping his arms in that pincer-like vice. Harry knew that it was more than likely he would retain serious bruises from all this.

"Tell no one. No one can know. James Potter's son . . . it is an atrocity . . . " Harry tried to find purchase in the frame of the door.

"Al-alright. I won't tell anyone. Really . . . " Snape's face was murderous. Harry heard a faint guffawing in the distance, and wondered vaguely whether Peeves was egging a passing student. He looked into Snape's eyes once again. The dark orbs were pinned to him even while he seemed to be looking past him. Harry tried to flex his hands. They felt as if they were slowly going numb.

"Do you think you could let go of me now?" he asked Snape. As though just realizing where he was, Snape's eyes focused upon Harry's green irises. His pale face suddenly was infused with a deep puce color. Without warning, he pushed him up against the wall.

"Tell no one," he repeated blankly. Harry nodded once more. Snape finally let go of him. He flung the door open and left. Harry stepped out into the corridor, watching while the potion master's black form disappeared down the hallway, until he reached the edge of the dungeon staircase. He shot one last glance into the room, before following him, deep in thought. When he saw him continuing to ascend the staircase, having just reached the end of it, Harry ran to catch up with him, struck by a sudden inspiration.

"Sir! Wait!" Snape turned on the spot, shooting him an ugly glare.

"What is it, Potter?" he spat.

"I just- just wanted to give you this." He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out one long, twisted paper firecracker. He shoved it into Snape's hands. His black eyes widened marginally. "You need this- more than I do," he gasped. He looked at Harry oddly. "Merry Christmas!" he burst out, and, before Snape could say anything else, he ran back into the Great Hall. Holding his head high, he joined the rest of the staff table for breakfast.

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_**Christmas ideas, anyone? Want to do a gift exchange of Snape's? Hahaha, happy holidays!**_

_**Fin ~ **_


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